


A Little Faith

by MoonlightOracle



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Avengers Family, Avengers Live Together, BAMF Peter Parker, Child Abuse, Cinnamon Roll Peter Parker, Dead May Parker (Spider-Man), Domestic Avengers, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Everyone Loves Peter Parker, Fluff and Angst, Foster Care, Gen, Genius Peter Parker, Homeless Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Reveal, Mutation, Orphan Peter Parker, Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Has a Family, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter-centric, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Powerful Peter Parker, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Avengers, Secret Identity, Sensory Overload, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2020-03-06 01:46:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18841129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonlightOracle/pseuds/MoonlightOracle
Summary: Death follows him around like a shadow.Why is it that everyone Peter loves dies? He’s only 13, and yet he’s Spider-Man, a child prodigy, anorphan— and after May’s death he’s left on his own. The foster system is incapable; only blindly tossing him into dangerous hands and Peter believes that he’ll never be okay again, even though he likes to pretend that the world isn’t crashing down around him all at once.But everyone has a breaking point. And after some stroke of luck that makes Peter encounter the Avengers... maybe... just maybe, they’ll help him learn to love again, and prove to him that no one, no matter how strong they may be, has to suffer alone.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Buckle up, my loves. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy reading.

He sits in a small chair beside the hospital bed, the soft beeping of the electronic appliances in room becoming nothing more than white noise.

Because all he can focus on is the woman lying in front of him.

As still as a statue. As pale as freshly fallen snow. As quiet as the dead. Not a single hint to suggest that she is alive, other than the slow rise and fall of her fragile chest.

Peter blinks away the tears that threatened to spill from his glistening eyes, bringing over a gentle hand to intertwine with May’s.

_May_.

His Aunt.

His precious family member.

His only living relative.

Unable to breathe, Peter chokes on painful sob that tore its way out from the depths of his throat, head falling down to his knees. For the second time that night...

He cries until his heart and soul are numb.

*****

Why must the world be so cruel?

Why must everyone he loves be taken away from him?

No.

It’s not them.

He’s the curse.

The constant variable.

_Everything is his fault_.


	2. They don’t know the truth

Peter stares impassively at the tiled floor, hands clenched into fists at his sides. His head is still pulsating heavily after the… breakdown he had earlier, and now all he’s left feeling is—empty.

Drained of the energy. Drained of the tears.

He can vaguely decipher the murmuring of the nurses in the opposite room, their hushed voices laced over with concern and sympathy.

“The poor kid, what are we going to say to him?”

“I don’t know… he’s only 13, and to have his only remaining family member pass so tragically just now… he must be devastated.” 

“Chloe, seriously? ‘Devastated’ is clearly an understatement here. Come on, the little child was at _the scene of the accident_ , for god sake. Didn’t we hear that he was also there when his uncle died too? His luck is…” He can hear the plastic rattling of an ID badge as the nurse crosses her arms, shaking her head morosely. “Awful.”

 _Tell me about it._ Peter scoffs inwardly.

“...There’s definitely going to be some long-lasting trauma behind that.”

_Thanks. Like I haven’t got that already._

“Oh hell, I can’t even begin to imagine that happening to me. CPS will pick him up, right?”

“Yeah, they’re on their way. ETA 10 minutes. But in the meantime, I think that we… should explain to him just how exactly his aunt died. He has been wanting to know.”

_It wasn’t an accident._

Collective sighs are heard, along with the soft pattering of footsteps and then the slamming of a door.

*****

_Fire._

_A golden fire raged in the horizon, licking the night sky with its flames as it crackled and roared like a vicious animal. It consumed and obliterated, burning everything it touched into charcoal black, into cinders, polluting the air with its toxic fumes and carbon particulates._  

_Leaving nothing remaining in its path of destruction._

_Peter looked into the distance, the grocery bag he was holding just a moment ago now dropped onto the dirty ground. The food forgotten. The flowers discarded._

_The street was drowning in rapid flashes of reds and blues, the police car’s loud sirens leaving a dull pain in Peter’s eardrums. Ambulances and firefighters swarmed the area, as well as a large group of people gathered together in the middle of the road, who were the residents of the apartment complex._

_But… as Peter’s eyes scoured the crowd, he realised something that made his heart drop instantly._

_May wasn’t with the group._

_She wasn’t there._

_*****_

“—she suffered burns to her respiratory system, as a result of smoke inhalation—poisoning, pulmonary swelling—asphyxiation—”

_No._

“I’m… so sorry, kid. We did as much as we could, but umm… she suffered injuries to such an extent that they were beyond repair.”

The nurses share an uncomfortable glance. They really hadn’t wanted to tell the kid all this; _because he’s too young to hear something this horrible_ , but since he kept insisting, they are unable to deny him the right. 

Peter grinds down on his teeth, the memories from earlier flickering to the forefront of his mind.

_That’s not all. How come they weren’t able to find it? Did it not leave a trace?_

He contemplated telling them. But what good would that do? They won’t believe him. After all, _he saw it_ , when he possibly couldn’t have.

_*****_

_The blistering heat clawed at his skin. His Spider-Man suit did nothing to protect him as he made his way inside the death trap through a shattered window on the 4th floor, navigating his way into the maze made with walls of fire._

_He’d already asked the civilians outside if anyone else was inside the building, and the answer he received didn’t help his increasing fear._

_No one saw May leave._

_Why? It was…odd. She must’ve heard the alarms. She must’ve heard the commotion on her floor._

_But how come she didn’t make it out?_  

_Peter made his way to the 7th floor, praying with everything he had that May was okay. She just had to be. He jumped across the stairs that had burned down in the middle, and as he ran through the hallway and tore his apartment door off its hinges…_

_His eyes widened in shock at what he saw._

_*****_  

“Peter Parker?”

Someone is standing in front of him. Someone with leather dress shoes, just slightly over polished. Someone wearing a well fitted suit, and reeked of potent, expensive cologne that made Peter’s nose itch in discomfort.

He slowly tilts his head upwards, making brief eye contact with a tall man in his 30s. He has a smile too fake for the teenager’s liking and Peter can feel his throat close up—struggling to swallow down his saliva.

He doesn’t like the man.

Of course, Peter knows better than to judge at first sight. But… something about this man just didn’t sit right with him.

“...That’s me.” Peter says monotonously, kicking his feet back and forth. He goes back to staring at the tiled floor as if it held the answer to all of the world’s most pressing questions.

“My name is Kevin White, and my colleague, Amelia Forrest and I have come from Child Protection Services. We are here to help you, Peter.”

As the man moves to the side, there is a woman behind him. And the mere sight of her makes Peter’s heart ache because she looks so similar to _May._

“Hi, sweetie… I know you’ve been through a lot today.” She pauses, seemingly about to hug him but then opting to rest her hand on his shoulder, rubbing it soothingly. “All we ask of you is to come with us, okay? We’ll keep you safe.”

***** 

_Through the bright orange flames that surrounded his vision, there stood a man in the living room. A man in all black. He turned around slowly, carefully, and when Peter expected to see a face, what he saw instead was a molten silver mask hiding the figure’s identity. His eyes glowed blood red, and everything about him seemed so sinister, so terrifying that Peter couldn’t stop his body from shaking._

_And at his feet… lay May’s unconscious body._

_Peter couldn’t breathe._

_Whether it was the smoke trapped in his lungs. Whether it was the sight in front of his eyes that made his stomach churn with horror. He couldn’t breathe._

_Peter choked on a gasp as he noticed that the masked man held a syringe in his right hand_ _._

_“W-What… what have you done?”_

_All the man does is tilt his head mockingly at his question and Peter can almost feel the gleeful smile he wore under his metallic mask._

_“You—You BASTARD! WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER?” Peter yelled, aware that his voice was cracking._  

_Still bearing no answer, he was about to lunge forward to attack the man but then a beam collapsed from the ceiling, causing Peter to fall back as the doorway was blocked._

_The spiderling quickly scrambled to his feet and lifted away the concrete, chanting pleas to whatever God out there that May was still alive. What the hell did he inject her with?_

_Peter moved the last of the debris and looked back at May, finding her in the same position as before. He cradled her in his arms tenderly, holding on with whatever strength he had left as he smashed the window and jumped out._

_And the man is nowhere to be found._

*****

As Peter gazes out of the car window, he grips onto the sleeves of his oversized hoodie tightly, whole body trembling with a fluctuation of different emotions.

He remembers what the lady—Mrs. Forrest—said earlier, but all it does it solidify the echoing thought in his head.

_I am far from safe._


	3. So be it

Peter slumps down on the cheap, squeaky bed, eyes wandering around the temporary room. It’s small, cold and poorly lit, but at least it’s somewhat clean and there’s a window so he can see outside. 

Other than a single bed and a bedside table, there’s nothing else. Peter doesn’t have anything except his phone and the clothes on his back, since everything else was all burned in the fire. 

Peter grimaces.

He curls his fingers into the thin and itchy blanket on the bed, and waits; listening for any sounds outside the room. His own heartbeat is audible in his ears, as well as the electronic humming of the lamp in the corner and the floorboards creaking from strain. 

But voices; any sign of a person nearby—there are none. 

Mrs. Forrest and the man whose name he couldn’t be bothered to remember are long gone, after getting him settled into the place just for the night, while they figure out his options. Peter knows that foster care is inevitable, but it’s too unpredictable, especially if he needs the freedom to be able to be Spider-Man. 

What if they were strict and never let him out? What if they checked up on him in the middle of the night, only to find an empty room? That would definitely be reported back to a social worker. With May, after living with her for so long, he knew her schedules and the best times to sneak out. 

A new house is new territory, and Peter couldn’t help but feel nervous at the thought of it. He _has_ to make sure that they never, _ever_ find out his secret identity. 

Regret boils in the pit of his stomach, as well as a reminder of the dinner he missed tonight, and his eyes start growing misty. He’ll never eat May’s homemade food again. He’ll never have Thai takeout with her again, or cuddle up with her as they watch Disney movies on their old couch. 

He’ll never get to know the rest of her funny stories, or feel the way she strokes his hair soothingly when he’s had a bad day, or even taste her poorly made experimental meatloaf bread with a smile. 

The realisation hits Peter hard, and he chokes on a watery breath, trying to keep himself from sobbing loudly. It’s not what he needs right now, and he knows that the moment a single whimper escapes his lips he won’t be able to stop crying. He already feels too raw; too vulnerable and he can’t afford to waste anymore time and energy dwelling on the reality that he can’t change. 

He loves May. He will always love her. 

But she’s gone now. Just like his parents and his uncle. And there’s nothing he can do about it. 

If this is how his life will be from now on; then so be it. Peter will just have to get used to it. 

It takes a while to calm himself down, but by that time he knows that everyone else in the building is asleep, if multiple soft snores are anything to go by.

Right. It’s time. 

Peter stands up and quietly walks towards the window, grateful that it’s large enough for him to fit his body through. He fiddles with the lock on the handle, about to break it with brute force but opting to pick the lock instead last second, as a quick test of his skills. And mostly because he doesn’t want anyone suspicious of him if they come into the room to find the handle of the window broken… yeah, that wouldn’t be so easy to explain. 

Glancing around the room, there doesn’t really seem to be anything he can use, making Peter grit his teeth. But then his eyes catch sight of the knob on the bedside table. 

With gentle precision, Peter grips the knob, needing to use a bit of his strength to unscrew it from the draw. The metal screw glints in the little moonlight entering the room as he finally takes it out, and he makes his way back to the window. 

Growing up, Peter has always been told by his uncle and aunt that he’s smarter than his own good. He has an uncanny knack for collecting new skills with ease, can build something just by looking at it once and he loves learning new languages as well. A polyglot, Ben called him. Although his perfect memory did play a major role, but even calling it ‘perfect’ would be an underestimation.

Once he knows something, he’ll never forget it. 

And it’s a curse as much as it’s a blessing. 

He remembers being bored out of his mind during elementary and middle school, while kids were out playing during recess, he’d be sitting at the teacher’s desk, typing away on the computer, searching, reading, learning. It left him feeling this exhilaration- one that he craved, grew addicted to, every time he found something new.  

Peter always had perfect grades when he was younger. All A’s on every essay. Full marks on every quiz. But then came the whispers. The eyes burning a hole through his back. 

Some teachers may have called him a child genius, a prodigy; but he didn’t focus on that. Because all he could think about at that time were the suspicious glances, the ‘ _freak_ ’ muttered underneath his classmates breaths and then- the bullying. He didn’t know it was happening at first, the petty name calling hardly seemed anything worth his time, but he should’ve noticed sooner, the missing lunches from his backpack, his homework stolen and flushed down the toilet. 

Peter stood in the canteen, drenched in sticky apple juice while people laughed. ‘ _So this is how it is_ ,’ he smiled to himself, ‘ _how you are treated when you are different_.’ 

So he found out he wasn’t normal. That the intelligence he has, while still being a child, was something out of the social norm, he took it upon himself to rebuild himself completely, and act more like his age. To pretend he doesn’t know how to fight like an expert. To pretend he doesn’t know how to speak fluently in over thirty languages. To pretend that he can’t do the world’s most difficult mathematical equations from the top of his head in seconds. His grades changed from A’s to the C average. 

He knows he’s not normal… and will never be normal. And especially after the spider bite, he’s even more sure of it. 

But, to him, personally—living a life in hiding is much better than living a life in the eyes of a crowd. 

His IQ would most definitely raise a few flags among certain people; people who’d want to get their hands on him and use him for their own benefit. Peter doesn’t want that. 

He recalls with crystal clear memory about all the professional lock picking videos he’s watched for fun that one time, and he inserts the screw and rattles it around a bit, turning it to the side. This type of lock is fairly simple, if not one of the most simplistic and primitive. The window has a rotatory handle with a built in lock that only needs a quick twist on the inside to hook onto the mechanism, releasing it. 

Peter listens in closely, lips twitching upwards upon hearing the tell-tale ‘click’ sound not even a few seconds later. 

He turns the handle, successfully opening up the window to face his second problem. Iron bars. What the hell? Was he in a prison? Peter scoffs, casually putting some pressure against the bars, but in doing so he cleanly dislodges it from the frame of the window. 

...Well. That was easy. 

Soundlessly, the teen places the window grate underneath the bed before climbing out, making sure to leave the window slightly open behind him so he can get back in. Pillows have been lined up on the bed to make it look like someone is sleeping there, just in case anyone did come back to check on him. 

Peter’s room is on the third floor—making rooftop access even easier as he crawls upwards, making use of the cover of night to stealthily sneak away. 

 


	4. Never let that happen

Peter carefully enters the hidden abandoned warehouse by the pier through a detachable panel on the rooftop and slides his lithe body inside, his feet landing on the ground with a quiet ‘thump’. 

Although it’s almost pitch black, Peter is still able to gauge where everything is and his fingertips trail along a concrete beam, flicking a switch upwards upon contact. 

And suddenly, the place comes to life. 

The generator starts up, creating a deep humming noise in the background and low hanging LED light bulbs light up one by one, revealing a large space the same size as a sports gymnasium. 

At the far end, the area is designated as the gym and workout space, with plush floor mats, different types of exercise machines, punching bags and wooden dummy’s. Most of these were actually thrown out by their former owner but Peter took them away and fixed them up easily. 

Although being Spider-Man is already one hell of a workout, it doesn’t hurt to train and keep his body in shape. And plus, it served a great purpose for his strength training.   
  
One thing when he gained super strength- it was so hard to adjust. He kept breaking doorknobs, taps, accidentally ripping things in half and it took a lot of effort to finally get it under control.

When he first started strength training in his bedroom, he flicked a stone he grabbed from outside with his index finger and thumb to try to get it in the pot a few paces away- but the stone practically fired like a bullet, indenting itself in the wall in front of him. And he did that with just a _tiny flick_. Peter paled immediately and tried to cover the hole up with his Star Wars poster, so that May wouldn’t ask any questions. 

But now, when he flicks a stone, it goes in the pot perfectly, it goes as far as he wants it to. He trained his strength so that it acted like a mechanism, withholding and releasing it whenever he wanted, always using the correct amount of force needed. And that in itself saves him a great deal of energy when he’s fighting.   
  
He couldn’t afford to make any mistakes.   


Peter also resolved the issues with his sticky skin quickly, getting that under control even faster than his strength- mostly because he was fuelled by the embarrassment of the situation he got himself into (Peter won’t go into details, since he doesn’t want to remember. It gives him a full body cringe every time).

Overlooking the gym area is the first floor balcony, and because the first floor doesn’t have nearly as much room as the ground floor, Peter assigned it as his sleeping spot. 

The many times that Peter sat on that thin mattress, battered and bruised and covered in blood, doing an amateur job of a medical procedure flashes through his mind and he winces involuntarily. But those days were when he was just starting out the vigilante business and didn’t know any better. 

After watching plenty—and he means _thousands_ —of professional fighting and martial arts videos, practicing them religiously that the moves became embedded into his muscle memory; he has never encountered another situation where his fighting abilities have lacked. He finally had the skill to match his strength. 

Though, it was difficult to do some of the moves, since they required an actual moving _human_ target, and not just a wooden dummy or punching bag he can play fight with. But it’s not like he can just grab any person off the street and ask them if they could spar with him; he’d be crazy. 

In the centre of the room is a lounge and seating area, with potted plants scattered here and there and to the left of Peter is the bathroom, and to the right is the kitchen. He inspects the place, noting that some dust has collected on the surfaces. Well, that’s a given, considering he hasn’t been here in a long time. 

And here, to be exact—is his secret base. 

The warehouse was bought by a well known corporation’s subsidiary company that sold numerous lifestyle goods, and the storage unit was in use for a few good months however corruption and a multi-level marketing scheme was exposed to the public within the corporation, resulting in a rapid drop in sales as well as workers. 

At first, the president of the corp tried to curry the favor of its customers by offering fake compensation, spouting lies and even throwing his PA under the bus, who later came out and testified against him. The wide-scale PR attempt to restore the company ended in a failure and the president had no choice but to declare bankruptcy. 

So, the warehouse where the employees supposedly stored the ‘goods’ fled from the place, leaving the conditions still pristine and new. It was lost and forgotten among all the other various storage facilities the company kept, and since it’s still meant to be ‘owned’ by them, despite the company no longer existing, no one else has been able to buy the warehouse. 

All in all, the place was just glaring at Peter in the face for him to be its new owner, and so he gladly swept it up, tidied it, did some renovations and turned the once cold and factory-like interior into a warm, bohemian rustic styled second home—a secret abode that he can truly call his own. (Don’t judge him for the fairy lights hanging across the walls, okay? He likes them.)

The teenager drops his backpack that had his Spider-Man suit, which he picked up from behind a dumpster earlier on his way here, against the wall and wanders inside. 

The kitchen doesn’t have much—in both appliances and food—but just enough to call it the bare necessities. Peter gets a glass of water to wash down his ashy throat, before plopping himself down on a beanbag, wondering what the actual _hell_ he should do next. 

Should he just become a fugitive and live here? It would make things easier… but then again, he doesn’t want to be on the constant lookout for CPS for another 5 years.

 _5 years._ God.

Peter sighs deeply, a frown etched on his face. His whole body is sore and aching and he thinks he might have a few burns from when… 

He doesn’t want to think about it. 

Even though it happened a few hours ago, it feels like it’s been weeks. Peter is too mentally drained to even comprehend what time it is right now. 

Anyways, he’s caught in a dilemma. 

Should he stay or should he go? He knows how to take care of himself. But the thing is, he has no job, no source of income... when with May, at least she’d give him pocket money which Peter saved up to buy whatever he wanted... 

_Beep beep._

Peter whisks his head around in alarm, seeing the little lights panelling along the door frame flashing neon purple. 

“Ophelia!” Peter jumps up and gasps, running towards the door. The door doesn’t seem very conspicuous at all, positioned off to the side of the lounge. But as he opens it up, he’s face to face with…

A supply closet. It’s stocked with random stuff, from cleaning tools to first aid kits, but Peter isn’t concerned about that. 

He pulls a lever hidden underneath an empty paint bucket, and immediately the closet shelves are opening up in the middle, revealing a secret room on the inside. 

Peter walks into the room and is met by six large computer monitors situated on a sleek, black desk with a comfy office chair, multicoloured cables and wires crawling up the walls like kudzu vines. There is a small sofa off to the left and an open wardrobe filled with an array of different clothes and accessories to the right.

When Peter was renovating the place, adding some extra walls to separate the different living spaces, he made sure to create a hidden room. He’s always wanted one, and when he finally finished creating it, to say he was ecstatic is an understatement. He meant to have the room only as a lab or sorts, where Ophelia’s central core is located but it also turned out to be somewhere to stash his important and expensive stuff. All of the things inside his secret room combined are probably worth more than him.

(He may or may not have stolen some building tools from construction workers nearby… but he did return it afterwards! So, really, it’s borrowing, not stealing, Peter convinced himself.)

The room is dark but as soon as Peter presses his hand down on a round table in the middle of the room, his surroundings are submerged in a soothing purple glow. 

“ **Hello, Peter. The rebooting sequence has been a success and my systems are now fully backed up. I am 100% integrated within my servers**.” A British female voice says, caught sounding somewhere between slightly human and slightly robotic. 

“Ophelia…” 

When he hears her voice, something inside him breaks. 

Suddenly, Peter can’t stop the tears from falling. His knees drop to the ground as covers his face with his hands, his sobs echoing loudly. The purple lights fade in and out and pulsate, as if recognising the situation and trying to comfort Peter but to no avail. 

“Ophelia… M-May, she…” 

Ophelia scans the internet, and instantly knows what Peter’s talking about. 

_‘Shocking! Firefighters at the scene of an apartment complex fire…’_

_‘Spider-Man sighted at a fire in Queens, is this the work of a menace…?’_

_‘New reports confirm the death of a woman, leaving behind her orphaned nephew…’_

The AI feels a hollow coldness running through her lines of code, and she immediately takes her physical form—a glowing purple orb. She floats over towards Peter and bumps gently against his head like a cat, giving her creator any sort of affection and concern as she possibly can. 

“ **Peter… I, I’m so sorry…** ” 

Peter sniffles, rubbing his wet eyes for god knows how many times in the past few hours. He looks at Ophelia through his damp eyelashes, and reaches out to her, Ophelia obediently settling down in the palms of Peter’s hands. Her energy particles are warm as they spiral and fluctuate in the air, and the spiderling brings her closer to his heart. 

“...It’s okay, sweetheart. You weren’t there, so there was nothing you could’ve done.” 

The orb visibly sparks, and Peter can tell that she just got angry at his statement. 

“ **But that’s the problem! If I hadn’t suggested a reboot, and if only I had stayed with you—then, then this wouldn’t have happened, I would’ve been able to** **_help_ ** **you—** ”

“ _Ophelia_ ,” Peter says sternly. “I… it wasn’t a normal fire. May, she… Someone else was there…” 

“ ** _What?_** ” 

The teen stands up and brings them both to the sofa. He shakes his head, his throat becoming dry… he doesn’t want to say what happened right now. Peter will never get over the image of May’s lifeless body on the floor in their living room… 

“ **…** ” Ophelia doesn’t say anything more, and the two of them are sat in silence. Peter’s body slowly slumps downwards, and the AI bumps his nose tenderly. 

“ **You should get some rest, Peter… it’s been a long day. You don’t need to worry right now. I’m by your side**.” Ophelia says quietly, noticing the way Peter’s eyelids keep fluttering shut. 

The boy hums, curling up on the loveseat with Ophelia snuggled up against his chest. His curly brown hair falls down over his eyes—and all of the sudden, Peter is no longer the infamous local vigilante or a genius prodigy; but just a young child with too many responsibilities and burdens to shoulder alone. 

Ophelia watches as Peter’s breathing slows down, until the fine lines and wrinkles on his face he’s gained over the day have faded away and his tense muscles turn lax. 

He’s done so much to help people… yet why does the universe treat him this way? It has taken from him, time and time again, his parents, his uncle, and finally, his aunt—until all he has left is her. 

And Ophelia will be damned if she ever gets taken away from Peter. 

She will never let that happen. 

Ophelia cuddles up closer to the warm, familiar chest, and lets the soft iridescent glow of her particles lull her precious creator into a peaceful sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I had someone like Ophelia...


	5. Decision

Peter slowly wakes up to the sound of pattering rain, and blearily blinks open his eyes to his surroundings. Everything is cold, quiet, still; and Peter’s heart eases when he sees Ophelia’s purple light envelope his vision, the AI letting out soft robotic chirps as she’s smushed in his chest. 

The first thing Peter realises is that he’s not in his bedroom.

For a moment, he was scared that he might’ve accidentally fallen asleep here after patching himself up from patrol, since it’s happened so many times before- and he always rushes back to the apartment and slips into his bed before May can wake up. 

But… that’s not what happened this time. Yesterday really wasn’t a nightmare, no matter how much Peter wishes it were. 

And it’s like everything hits him at once. 

There isn’t the familiar smell of burnt pancakes filling his senses. There isn’t May knocking on his bedroom door and telling him to get up, complaining about how much he sleeps in. There isn’t an exaggerated kiss smothering his face and his Aunt’s delighted laughter when Peter nudges her away, groaning _‘Fine fine, I’m up, I’m up!’_ He isn’t in the place he so vividly remembers as _home_. 

A home he can no longer go back to. 

Peter can feel tears building up again, stinging his swollen eyes, and he squeezes his arms tighter around Ophelia. 

 **“...Peter?”** Ophelia says, hesitant. 

“Mhmm.” 

**“Peter. It’s half past six in the morning. According to the data I’ve gathered from CPS’ records, you are scheduled to be collected at seven to have a meeting with Mr. White and Mrs. Forrest, concerning your… foster parents. Are you going to go?”**

Peter looks up at the ceiling. 

Does he want to? 

No, he really doesn’t. 

But if he stays, which is a huge decision to make, there’s definitely going to be some problems. Like his thermoregulation, for one. He needs warmth, and a lot of it. He forgot to turn the portable heater on before he slept last night, and when he woke up his toes and fingers felt like they were going to fall off. If he’s planning on staying here long term, then he needs to add more insulation in the walls, and buy more portable heaters. But that requires money. 

Not to mention his metabolism. He needs lots of food, and by that he means an ungodly amount. And he needs even more than that when he’s recovering from injuries. Peter never understood how May never caught on, if he’s being honest. Even though he lied through his teeth saying he was a ‘growing boy’, but really, it was so suspicious looking back at it. 

_May…_

Peter rubs his face with his sleeves, running his fingers through his hair. 

Maintaining a supply of food, that sounded easy, but that _also_ requires money. Christ, everything requires money nowadays, you can’t get by without it. And where was he going to get money from? It’s not like he’s just going to randomly find a duffle bag full of cash with no name on it, no matter how appealing that does sound. 

Being 13, the minimum legal age to work is still pretty far off... if he wants to be employed to get income, then that means he’s going to have to get a fake ID that changes his age. 

“Ophelia, do you think that I could pass off as being older? Like… 15 or something?” 

 **“Most certainly. Due to the change in your physiology after the spider bite, increasing your height and muscle mass, you appear slightly older than you really are. The oldest age you could pass off as is 16, at most, when at 100% health conditions and having the proper nutrition required for your body.”**  

Peter lets out a breath. That’s somewhat reassuring. “Okay. Cool.” 

Well… He’s leaning towards the idea of going into foster care, being taken into an unfamiliar home, with unfamiliar surroundings and unfamiliar people. Would he prefer staying within the comforts of his secret base, having to remain all by himself and struggle in hiding or give up his safety just to save himself from the painful ache of loneliness and the dire need for the necessities and essentials of daily life? 

_But it doesn’t matter if he’s on his own. If anything, he’s better off that way, so no one else can get hurt because of him._

And Peter’s not completely by himself, after all, at least he has Ophelia. 

Damn it, he’s not sure. Hell, he’ll probably never be sure, but either way he still needs to make up his mind. 

Getting up slowly, Peter trods to the bathroom, cleaning himself of all the grime and vestiges from last night. He washes his hair with cheap drugstore shampoo and notices how the water turns grey from all the dust and ash that had collected around his body, watching as it flowed down the drain. Peter grimaces at how dirty he is. 

After he took care of his hygiene, he puts on some clean clothes, hoping that Mr. Who-what’s-his-name and Mrs. Forrest from yesterday won’t notice the new attire or question him about where he got it. 

Peter glances at the red and blue costume on the floor. The Spider-Man suit is a lost cause. It’s completely burnt, charred, with holes littering every inch of the fabric. 

Yikes. Peter shook his head. “It's probably time for an upgrade, don’t you think Phea?” 

**“I was hoping you’d suggest that, Peter. I have been looking forward to implementing the changes on the new suit designs you created last month.”**

“Me too, hun. Me too. We’ll sort it out later, yeah?” 

He’d been meaning to start building the upgraded suit, but he kept putting it off. _And look where that’s brought him._ If he had the new suit, he could’ve been able to navigate the building faster, he could’ve been able to save May… 

“Phea, we… I need to tell you this. Last night, when the building was burning…” Peter’s throat closes up, and he sighs, leaning against the wall for a bit. “She didn’t make it out because someone had already gotten to her.” 

Ophelia stays silent, wanting to let him finish speaking, but Peter can tell she is brewing with anger. 

“When I found her, she- she was unconscious. Wasn’t responsive. And there… there was this man-”

Peter let out a shaky breath, clenching his eyes shut. _Breathe. Breathe, Peter._ “He injected her with something, and I think it was to make her fall asleep so that… she couldn't leave the building. So that her death would be ruled as an _accident_. And it was. Everyone, even the police think that this was some tragic accident, but they don’t understand, they don’t _know_ what really happened.

“When the paramedics rushed her to the hospital… she was still asleep. The nurses said that the injuries she suffered from the fire were too severe, and that’s what was keeping her under… but it wasn’t…” 

Peter slides down to the ground, wrapping his arms around his legs. He hides his face in his knees, chest heaving from the force of trying to contain his break down. 

“...She never woke up again.” He whispers, tears streaming down his cheeks, and Peter bites his trembling bottom lip so hard that he can taste the metallic tinge of blood on his tongue. 

“Someone- someone planned this on purpose, and I-I don’t know who they are or why they targeted May, but we _need_ to find out. They must’ve been watching us, because the exact moment I left the apartment was when the fire started.” 

**“But why would they target May? ...Did they discover your identity? That can’t be, I made it my utmost priority to keep your secret identity hidden as securely as possible.”**

“I know you did, Sweet Phea. And you’ve done an amazing job, but that’s what I just don’t understand. They couldn’t possibly know about me being Spider-Man, so it must be something else. But what? That’s what I’m trying to figure out. ...Something is going on, Phea, and I don’t like it.” 

**“Don’t worry, Peter. With me by your side, I’ll help you every step of the way. We’ll do this together. We’ll get May the justice she deserves.”**

“Thank you, Ophelia… I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he sniffles loudly. “I love you.” 

Ophelia glows warmly, **“I love you too, Peter.”** Her tone is tender. Affectionate. Is Peter just imagining it or has she always been able to do that? Her program must be growing by itself, becoming even more advanced without needing his help. 

Peter got up off the floor and went back into the hidden room, fastening a sleek watch around his wrist. Part of Ophelia’s systems is embedded into it, and there is no way in hell he’s leaving without her. 

“I’m going to go back.” He says. 

 **“Are you sure?”**  

“No. But… I don’t know what else I can do. And anyway, foster care can’t be so bad, right?” 

Ophelia doesn’t reply. 

Peter looks around one last time, making sure everything is in place. He should probably start heading back, the people from CPS are going to pick him up any minute now. 

Peter scales up the wall and goes out through the rooftop, securing the detachable panel back into place. The rain is harsh and relentless, soaking his clothes, and Peter is glad for his enhanced immune system, since weather like this no longer gives him colds. 

As he runs away quickly back into the city; if only he looked back. Maybe then he would’ve changed his mind about leaving. 

Maybe then he wouldn’t come to regret it. 


End file.
